1917 



AMERICAN BEE JOURNAL 



413 



bend of the road just above my 

 apiary, where they would stop at 

 sight of those giant chistcrs of car- 

 dinal berries aloft on shrubbery al- 

 most as impenetrable as a tropical 

 jungle. In a few moments they 

 would slip quietly back down the 

 grade, guilty tonneaus aflame with 

 spoils. "After all," I ended, cheer- 

 fully, "why waste good gasoline 

 climbing hills when more and better 

 Ijcrries within a half mile of the town 

 as the bee flies, can be had for the 

 stealing?" 



But my neighbor ignored the 

 thrust. He fastened the dog, made 

 room for me on a rough bench and 

 continued to sort the branches into 

 bundles of sizes intended to entice 

 the coin of every denomination from 

 the pocket of the public — small, 

 short-stemmed, five-cent bunches ; 

 small, longer-stemmed bunches for a 

 dime ; two, four and six-bit sizes ; and 

 the gorgeous armfuls. A tolerant 

 smile played on his weather-beaten 

 face. 



"A machine alius makes a feller 

 act like he owns the earth." A wave 

 of his free arm dismissed the subject. 

 And even though I knew positively 

 that from the time the advance guard 

 of the summer visitor, on the pre- 

 text of inspecting furnished bunga- 

 lows, boldly approached his front 

 door, to midwinter, when the small- 

 boy pest on a still hunt for a Christ- 

 mas tree, sneaks an axe from my 

 woodpile, selects an unfrequented 

 spot and wriggles through the hedge, 

 each month ushers in its own pecu- 

 liar type of human trespasser — plus 

 my bees whenever the flying is good 

 — I could say no more. Indeed it 

 was only the incident of my axe that 

 had first prompted me to speak. I 

 wanted to square myself with my 

 neighbor, as it were. 



But more than that, I wanted to 

 know him. I wanted to know why 

 any man would deliberately choose 

 a rough-brush-covered piece of land 

 for a home, and what he was growing 

 on the other side of the hedge that 

 walled it in. So did everybody else. 



Many pointed a significant forefin- 

 ger to the forehead when his name 

 was mentioned; also it was rumored 

 that he was a writer, a Mormon, a 

 linguist commanding seven different 



languages, a reformed hobo, a , 



But why enumerate further when 

 gossip agreed only on the one point, 

 that he was a "harmless gink?" 



My bees alone came and went re- 

 gardless of the law and local 

 prophets, secure in their ancient 

 right of honey toll, for the lawyers 

 who had passed my neighbor's title 

 had. through some strange oversight, 

 neglected to require quit claim deeds 

 from those tiny claimants. And each 

 season my hives are filled with fra- 

 grant amber honey, subtly reminis- 

 cent of the large clusters of spicy 

 white flowers that bloom in July, and 

 often earlier, according to locality; 

 the Tollon being common to nearly 

 all sections of California. 



For three blessed years I had 

 watched that hedge grow. And now 

 at last I was on the other side and 

 being invited by my neighbor to par- 

 take of a curious wine-red drink 

 which he had made from his Tollon 

 berries after an old Spanish-Califor- 

 nian recipe. 



"The Indians ate the berries," he 

 informed me; "they used 'em as a 

 sort of relish, or salad." 



So we ate them, too. They were 

 acid and slightly astringent, though 

 not exactly unpleasant. And the 

 quantity! There were berries enough 

 to decorate every Christmas tree in 

 the world, and only that hedge of the 

 same to protect it from the world. 

 For my neighbor had cunningly de- 

 cided against board and picket fenc- 

 ing. Neither did he select the latest 

 thing in barbed wire, naively sug- 

 gested by the local hardware dealer. 

 "Reg'lar fencin' would be shoiitin' 

 fer scrubs to come an' break it 

 down." And few suspect the luxuri- 

 ant rows of Tollons that completely 

 cover my neighbor's half-acre — a 

 rich and glowing tribute to his min- 

 istrations with hoe and hose. For 

 under cultivation and adequate pol- 



lination he asserts the yield of his 

 trees has increased a hundred fold. 



So my bees had done their bit for 

 Christmas Jerry. 



I arose to go. My neighbor arose 

 also. 



"You see, folks can't do much harm 

 except to the hedge," he concluded, 

 graciously referring to my well- 

 meant tip. "They can't get a look in- 

 side, can they, good old Jane dog?" 

 He stooped to stroke a lank but 

 graceful canine. 



It may have been the wine-red 

 drink, or it may have been the holi- 

 day atmosphere; I do not know. But 

 I reached over and poked my neigh- 

 bor familiarly in the ribs. "Come oil! 

 What about the summer visitors that 

 make friends with your dog, take 

 possession of your garden, and the 

 gardener, too, and go away with 

 enough foliage to stock a green- 

 house? May be that don't affect your 

 crop 1" 



"Say," he whispered, how'd you 

 know ?" 



"They raid my place first," I whis- 

 pered back. 



He looked puzzled. 



"My beehives," I ejaculated. They 

 all appear to think they are some 

 new-fangled bungalow. Can't warn 

 'em off! Finally one day some of 'em 

 got curious about the furnishin's an' 

 peeked in." 



My neighbor thrust out a horny 

 hand. "Shake!" he roared. 



Los Gatos, Calif. 



JERRY PREPARING FUK Till; HOLIDAYS. 



The Paradise of Bees 



By Bro. Romain 



FOR the interest of beekkeepers, I 

 relate here the conversation I 

 had the other day with Mr. A. 

 Evans, of the Inshallah Dairy Farm, 

 an ex-officer of the Indian army. We 

 were talking of bees, when he re- 

 marked, "China is a very poor coun- 

 try compared with India, which may 

 be truly called 'the Paradise of Bees,' 

 on account of the perpetual summer 

 and the abundance of flowers. When 

 I was there in 1875, in one of my ram- 

 bles through the jungle near Kamptee 

 (Central Province), I came across 

 the most astounding sight that any 

 beekeeper has ever dreamed of in his 

 life. In the branches of a gigantic 

 multi-trunk banyan tree, so common 

 in India, there was an enormous nest 

 of bees ; it looked like an old cre- 

 nated castle, alive with the buzz and 

 the movement of countless bees. Im- 

 agine a mass of combs 18 feet by 12 

 through, peopled by several hundred 

 colonies forming a single block, stor- 

 ing and multiplying year after year, 

 swarming from one side to the other. 

 "I tried to approach the fortress, 

 in spite of the natives telling me I 

 would be killed — (besides, they ad- 

 ded, the honey was not good in the 

 hot season) — but on nearing the 

 combs I had to beat a hasty retreat, 

 assailed by thousands of infuriated 

 bees of the fiercest kind — the tiger 

 bee. In proper time the natives used 

 to get honey by means of long bam- 

 boo poles with which they were pok- 

 ing the monster nest to secure a good 

 flow of honey. What a pity I had no 



